


I Might Be Late

by kokoromg



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Car Accidents, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokoromg/pseuds/kokoromg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and you’ve been living the dream-going to college with your best friends in Washington, and with an especially special John Egbert. That all changes when John gets himself into a car crash, and goddamn, why is the whole world falling apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ==>Be Dave

May 28th, 2018

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're sitting in a little café that's very clean and very warm, complete with cozies on the seats and waitresses that act like they're some hybrid of your mother and your best friend. Right now, one of them keeps glancing at you, looking sympathetic. She thinks you're being stood up just because you've been there for an hour already and you'd asked for a table for two. Well, you'll show her.

Your fingers drum the table. A half drunk cup of coffee sits next to them, pretty cold by now because you'd ordered it when you'd first come in an hour ago. You'd be worried, but it isn't like him being late is anything new. You'd be irritated too, but you don't really blame the guy, working two part time jobs in addition to college and all. Well, you do the whole college thing too, but a lot of it is based online and you're piggybacking the college fund you didn't know your bro had for you as far as income's concerned. How _he_ does it is beyond you, but hey, you're not going to hold the occasional tardiness against him.

You pull out your phone, rereading your messages to make one hundred percent sure that you're in the right place (you'd had a misunderstanding once before, ending up with both of you sitting in different places for an hour—god, that had been a nightmare), and it is.

\--ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 20:21--

EB: dave! do you want to go out tomorrow?!  
TG: nah  
TG: yeah dude sorry but i'd rather chill at home than go out with my best friend  
TG: got news that someone's challenging my title as god of doing absofuckinglutely nothing  
TG: can't have that happen, i need to maintain my street cred, y'know?  
EB: ummm, ok.  
TG: dude chill i was kidding  
TG: sigh   
TG: one day egbert, one day, you will understand  
TG: sarcasm=irony  
TG: it's a thing i do  
TG: it's like a universal constant  
TG: you don't get the irony, you don't get the strider  
TG: and you know you want me  
EB: oh...right! and please dave, i got used to your "irony" years ago. i'm just really tired right now :B  
TG: woah hold the presses  
TG: what is up with those quotation marks  
TG: you doubting me  
TG: you questioning my unwavering amount of ironic coolness?  
TG: bitch please it's like  
TG: like a fucking tidal wave  
TG: you ever wake up and feel a tingle on your spine  
TG: it's because my inescapable wave of ironic cool had you in its grasp  
TG: you woke up only because you escaped  
EB: if it's inescapable, how did i escape???  
TG: because i ironically let you  
TG: i told you it's all about the irony  
TG: an unironically inescapable wave is inescapable. an ironically inescapable wave is escapable   
TG: ...possibly  
EB: ...  
EB: wow i think you literally just gave me a headache.  
TG: then go home and watch some shitty movies or something  
EB: you mean great, right? :B  
TG: no, i mean shitty. like i'm going to just take a stab, maybe ghostbusters 2? moe and marley? con air?   
TG: ten bucks on something with nic cage in it, i'm calling it   
TG: you and your man-crush on fucking cage  
TG: you need to get over that sometime, dude, it's pretty embarrassing  
EB: psh sorry that you can't get the Cage, but maybe that's why I don't always get your "irony"!  
TG: egbert please abstain from such comparisons my irony at its lowest is still at a completely different level then whatever one cage is on  
TG: you're killing me here  
EB: haha! sure, sure.  
EB: well, whatever you think about him i'd love to go watch the GREAT man himself in action, but i need to go study for my finals tomorrow   
EB: you probably should too :B  
TG: hey i've got my shit together  
TG: all ready to go for tomorrow  
TG: and you know you're ready too  
EB: i guess.  
EB: oh, do you want to go out then?  
TG: yes i fucking want to go out. got somewhere in mind?  
EB: yeah there's a really good place my bio teacher told me about! he says that it's got the greatest coffee ever!  
TG: is that like a pastry shop  
TG: do they have good cakes too  
TG: i could use some cake  
EB: fuck you. :B  
TG: not until after our date, at least  
TG: striders don't roll like that  
TG: ...  
TG: ok cool you gonna send me the address or what  
EB: oh yeah, sorry! meet at seven?  
EB: though i might be a little late. :(  
TG: that's new  
EB: sorry! :((  
TG: it's cool. i'll see you tomorrow  
EB: :D

\--ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 21:04--

And that was how it had gone—but this was definitely the place. He hadn't picked up his phone or answered the texts you'd sent out about ten minutes ago, and ten minutes before that, so you decide to just wait. You look fondly at your phone, though an observer wouldn't be able to tell—you don't let your mouth twitch and you're wearing your shades, like normal. But for the longest time, pesterchum had been your sole communication to the, admittedly, only real friends you had. Until you moved up to Washington, your phone was sometimes the only thing that could really make you smile. And after a while, when the person pestering you had blue text…

Forget it. That was what you'd come here to talk about.

Suddenly, a wave of anxiousness hits you, and you try to calm yourself down. But you don't, really, until you text him:

 

Dave [20:11:04]: hurry up egboob I’ve been waiting forever

 

You'd decided that today was the day to tell him—after years, literally years, of putting it off. Your finals were over starting today, and you'd be getting your B.A.s within the next week, so if it freaked him out, he'd still have that to keep him happy.

Despite the fact that you'd been looking at it, when your phone rings, it startles you. You answer it, put it up to your ear without looking at who it's from, and start talking.

"Hey Egbert, pretty late, aren't you?"

"Am I talking to Mr. Dave Strider?"

A hole seems to have started burning in your stomach. The voice is a very professional sounding one, and though it could mean many different things, your first thought is that something bad has happened.

"Yeah, that's me. Who is this?"

"My name is Doctor Scratch. I work at the Cherub hospital, downtown. You were named as one of the contacts to be informed should anything happen to Mr. John Egbert."

And just like that, you're almost ready to lose your shit. Your hand's started shaking without your being able to control it, and goddammit, just ask him what's happened. But you can't. Luckily, the man continues without being prompted.

"I'm very sorry, but John Egbert was in a severe accident and has been hospitalized. He is currently undergoing surgery. His chances of making it aren't as good as we'd like them to be."

The waitress who'd been eyeing you comes over to your table, as if sensing that something's wrong. She frowns at you, and asks you if there is. Your head moves in her direction, but you're somewhere else. You don't—can't answer her.

The doctor waits patiently for a couple moments. Your breathing gets faster and faster, and you feel like you're going to choke. How did this happen? Things were supposed to be going good for him now! He was getting his degree. He got accepted to graduate school. And you were supposed to finally tell him everything. But now…

"Can I see him?" you choke out.

"Not during surgery, no. I'm sorry. But you can come now, if you'd like, and wait outside."

"Okay," you whisper, and hang up the phone. Your hand is still sort of shaking, but you've gone numb besides that, and your mind feels completely blank. The waitress who'd come over had stayed quiet until you hung up the phone, but now she's talking again.

"Is something the matter?"

"I…I've got to get to the hospital."

Her brow furrows. "Cherub hospital?"

You nod, though you're not really paying attention. You barely register her words when she speaks again.

"You can't drive right now. Look at you!"

You stagger to your feet. "No, you don't understand I need to go, now!"

She nods sympathetically. "C'mon, I'll drive you."

And something inside your head says 'don't get into cars with strange women', but it doesn't even matter because he's hurt, and all you know is that you need to be there right now.

"Thanks but I can drive myself." You try to push past her. She grabs your arm.

"You're either waiting from an ambulance to come get you, or I'm driving you. You're gonna get yourself killed, driving in the state you are now."

"I don't have time to wait for an ambulance to come."

"Then I'm driving you. My shifts already over, anyways. Don't waste more time arguing."

So you don't, and the next thing you know, you're sitting in the backseat of a stranger's Toyota. And then you're in the local hospital with the waitress's firm grip steadying your shoulder. And then you're asking the front desk man where to find John Egbert, and his smile has too much pity in it as he looks up where John is. And then he's given you the location, and you're leaving as quickly as you can, trying to get away from the man and his sympathy. And then you're sitting outside of the room, noting the red light above it, and generally feeling like your heart has fallen to somewhere inside your stomach.

You probably doze off, because the next thing you know, the waitress is shaking you and the light has turned green. You look around wildly, and realize that you've been woken because a doctor has approached. Or, you assume he's a doctor. He's pale, with a very round face, and small features. He  _is_ wearing a white doctor's coat, though.

"You're Dave Strider?"

"…yeah."

"My name's Doctor Scratch. Nice to meet you Mr. Strider."

"Not really." You're being an asshole and you know it. But then he smiles that understanding smile, and goddammit people, can _really_ just stop trying to be so understanding because they don't understand how you feel at all.

"It's okay to be upset."

"Yeah."

He eyes your face, and you desperately try to keep yourself looking calm.

"I have good news and bad news.”

“Good news and bad news.”

"That's correct."

"Is he going to be okay?”

He scans you carefully again, then his shoulders slouch in resignation. “He broke a few ribs, but his surgery stopped the internal bleeding. There isn't any physically permanent damage." Then he hesitates. "But as of right now, he is comatose.”

You're speechless for a second, trying to register what he’s saying.  _No physically permanent damage. Comatose._

“Is he going to wake up?” you manage to ask. The doctor sighs.

“We don’t know as much about comas as we’d like to. Truthfully? He could wake up right now, or he could wake up in ten years. There’s no way of knowing.”

He says something else, but he says it several times and sounds vaguely annoyed when you finally hear him.

“Mr. Strider?”

You feel yourself nod.

 _“_ Does he have any family members than we can contact for him?"

The doctor's question registers with you, and you feel yourself nod again. "He's got a dad and a grandmother. I can-I have their phone numbers-let me just—"

You dig your phone out of your pocket, with difficulty. Do your hands always fumble this much? You look up the contacts for Dad and Nana Egbert, and read the numbers off to the doctor, who writes them on a little clipboard. Then you stow away your phone, and he stows away his clipboard, and you're face to face again.

"Do you have any more questions?" the doctor asks. You do, and you try to ask them, but the words catch in your throat. Luckily, the waitress, again, covers for you.

"What happened?"

The doctor clears his throat. "From what we have gathered, your friend ran a red light. A truck crashed into him."

And again your heart falls—because this is _your_ fault. He was hurrying to meet you, and if he'd driven a little more carefully, if you hadn't made him feel like it was so urgent to get there to see you, maybe he wouldn't be in this mess.

The doctor turns to you again. "You can go see him now, if you want. He's in room 413."

You nod, and you think you hear yourself thank the doctor. Then you sit back down, and you put your face in your hands. The waitress, who must be exhausted by now, nevertheless rubs your back and makes comforting noises.

It doesn't help. You think that you might be crying, but it's not really because you’re sad, and more because you're drained and exhausted and angry at yourself. He hadn't been driving carefully because of _your_ making him think that you hated his being late. He would have been driving more carefully if _you_ hadn't sent that stupid ass text telling him to hurry up. If he’d driven a little more carefully, he’d be okay. Your name is Dave Strider, and you're sure that this is all your fault.


	2. ==>Be John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's side of the story.

May 28th, 2018

Your name is John Egbert, and you feel like you're about to collapse—in the good sort of way. You've just finished all your exams, and you're about to go meet your best bro for dinner. What could be better?

You grab your phone from the plastic bin the proctor made you stick it in—as if you would cheat—and turn it on. A missed text. A couple of missed calls. Whoops. The exam had take sooo much longer than you'd anticipated. But the last call was fairly recent—just a minute or two ago. You consider calling back, but you decide that you'd rather just step on it and get going. Irrational? Maybe. But you have a very important mission tonight, and you don't want to blow it before it even begins.

The mission, of course, is to ask your very best friend, Dave Strider, to go out with you. And not like, to meet up with you. To like, actually go out.

So maybe you have an ulterior motive for not texting him back. You might, maybe just a little bit, be totally freaking out.

You're pretty sure that he'll decline—you know that he’s very guarded about who he dates—and it's not like you've been especially good at giving him hints that you're interested. To be fair, it was only after a couple of Rose's recent, mind-draining "psychoanalyst" sessions (god, if her patients leave her room alive, she's going to be the best psychiatrist ever) that you to came to terms with it yourself. It had involved a lot of stubborn screaming "I am not a homosexual" (you) and a fair amount of "but you can still want to be intimate with Dave" (her). She'd explained a lot about how sexuality is fluid and how people can be attracted to "exceptions" of other genders and basically said a lot of things that made really little sense to you. But you'd frowned and nodded and accepted that you liked—really, really liked— Dave Strider.

You step into your car—a 1977 AMC Gremlin, which is cool, no matter how many times Dave tells you it's really not—and nearly kill the engine as you back out. God, you're really nervous—you're actually a really, really good driver. Normally.

You're about half way there when your phone buzzes. You grit your teeth—you're not irritated with him, but you are irritated with this light—why won't it change already? After what seems like forever, it does. The next light's green—excellent, you seem to have hit every red light possible so far. Just your luck, you suppose. But as you get closer, it turns to yellow.

And then you do something really stupid. Normally, you'd just come to a stop—you really are a great driver in ordinary situations. But your phone buzzes again, and you know that Dave is probably in the restaurant right now, getting totally fed up, and _god,_ you need to get there while he's still there and not in an irreversibly bad mood. So you speed up a little bit, praying that you'll make it through the light.

It turns red.

 You think you may have seen the light change a blurry second before you find yourself in the middle of the intersection, but you’re not sure. It’s okay though, because even if you get a ticket, you made it to the other side of the intersection.

...Except you didn’t. Everything's confusing, because you didn’t. You can't move and you feel something warm on your chest and it's really uncomfortable. And your car isn't moving. Your head's on the dashboard but you can't move it, and you feel like you should be in some sort of pain. But all you know is that you're not sure what happened, and that alone fills your mind.

You think you can hear some swearing and some screaming, and maybe, after an indefinite amount of time, the faint sound of sirens. But maybe that's just what you're hoping for.

Some insane fraction of your mind drifts away before the rest, and wonders if Dave will find out or if he'll storm home, angry that you didn't show, or if he'll sit there all night waiting for you. You wonder how he'll find out and if he'll be upset that you got yourself into something so very stupid and how much he'll care. The last thought that goes through your head is that yes, you're definitely late--and then goddammit the pain starts setting in, all at once, in a wave that makes you want to scream.

Then your head goes black, and you don’t see anything but that for a very, very long time.


	3. ==>Be Dave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started writing this, I thought that it was going to be John and Dave struggling through John's recovery from his car accident. But, warning, it's now about Dave's working through what happened to John. Essentially, it's a pretty different story than I originally intended for it to be. You've been warned :)

June 4th, 2018

You don’t want to be Dave. Quite frankly, you would love to be anybody besides Dave.

 _Except for John_ , says a voice in your head, a snide, nasty voice that has taken up a habit of being a royal _pain in your ass._

But it has a point. However much pain you’re in, you’re conscious. That’s something you've got on John.

Your stomach has been tied into so many knots over the past few days that you’re certain that they will never all come undone.

First there was seeing him lying in that hospital bed—you didn't think it could get any worse than that. But then there was not being able to pry yourself away from it. The waitress who’d accompanied you bought you breakfast and a coffee, before apologizing and saying that she had to go back to work. You’d thanked her—she’d done so much when really she hadn't needed to do anything at all—and she’d shushed you, scribbled her number onto a napkin, and made you promise to call her.

Then there was Jade and Rose arriving. They came down from their all-girls school as soon as they heard what had happened, and the only thing worse than Jade’s wails were Rose’s attempts to cloak her own emotional response by trying to psychoanalyze the shit out of you.

Then there was his dad arriving. His dad, who’d allowed you to accompany John home for the holidays the past four years. His dad, who’d tolerated John and your antics, no matter how ridiculous. His dad, who’d quietly smiled as you opened his most recent Christmas present to you—a framed Christmas picture of the Egberts and yourself—as you'd tried not to cry.

You'd gotten up to leave the room as he'd entered, wanting to give the man some time alone with his son. But he’d waved you down, and you’d been forced to sit there as he held John’s hand. That, actually, was probably the worst. He didn't say anything to John, but he sat there for hours just holding his hand, his eyes closed. As far as you were aware, the Egberts were atheists, but from what it seemed like to you, he might have been praying.

His dad left at the end of the day, gravely telling you that he had to help out John’s grandmother, who was too old to come and too old to take care of herself for long periods of time. He also thanked you for always having been there for John, and for being there now.

You didn't tell him that it was your fault that his son was hurt in the first place, even though the guilt is eating you alive.

Rose and Jade stay longer, but eventually they have to drive back up to their school, at least for a day, to collect their things. They tell you to take care of yourself—Rose gives you a look that you know means more pseudo therapy shit—as they drive away.

And now, a week later, it’s just you at John’s bedside again.

His glasses are folded neatly on a little table next to his bed—not that they’re doing him much good now. You wonder if he wears them in his dreams, or if he’s dreaming at all. You wonder if he knows he’s not awake, or if he’s living out his life in his own head.

You shake your own head, trying to clear your thoughts.

You really shouldn’t be left alone.

But then, you can’t stand the idea that he might be living another life, forgetting about you. So you talk, at first trying to distract yourself, but then, on some crazy hope that he can hear you, to him.

“John, I don’t know if you can hear me. Hell, hopefully you can’t, because your dream self is probably just as much of an asshole as you are, and so he’s probably just telling me to shut up.

But I’m not going to shut up, John. You’re my best friend. You are the reason I went to college, really, and if anyone should be walking down that aisle with a cap, gown, and diploma tomorrow, it’s you. You, not me.

Are you mad at me, John? Then wake up and say it to my face. Don’t be a wimp, Egbert, I can take it. Wake up, and tell me how you feel.

Okay, no? Then I’ll tell you how I feel. I’m fucking in love with you, asshole. Wake up and tell me how ridiculous I am, that you wouldn’t date an asshole like me.

Just wake up John. Please.

It’s okay that you missed our date—I don’t like being stood up, but if you wake up, we can always make plans for a second one.

That’s right, I, David Strider, will give you a second date.

That’s how much I care about you.

But only if you wake up.

Please, John.

Please wake up.”

You don’t realize how long you’ve been talking to him until a nurse comes in with his dinner. She smiles, and pulls out a coffee for you from seemingly nowhere. You nod in thanks—you’re on pretty good terms with all the staff in this section of the hospital.

“You know,” she says, “it’s nice that you’re talking to him.”

You nod again, and try to put on a smile for her as she leaves. Her appearance made you conscious of the time, though, and suddenly you feel very tired. But you don’t want to stop talking to him, because maybe, just maybe, it’s helping.

So you just keep muttering the only thing that’s important, over and over.

“Please wake up. Please wake up. Please wake up…”


	4. ==>Be Dave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which 16 year old John actually did have a salamander as a pet and Dave is an angsty sad kid. Happy holidays!

July 4th, 2018

It’s been a month since the accident happened, and by now you know the hospital as if it were your own home. You learned where everything is by getting lost a lot, but mostly you’re either in the cafeteria (top floor, straight past the vending machines in the creepy hallway), or John’s room (fourth floor, seventh door on your left).

The hospital’s visiting hours are long, 8 am through 10 pm. You’ve been there all fourteen hours, every day, for the last month. You’re on a first name basis with the entire fourth floor staff. Sometimes they talk to you, and sometimes they watch you talk to John. Most of them don’t look at you pityingly—rather, they encourage you from a medical perspective.

“When you see him, say ‘hey, it’s Dave’—every time. I mean, you don’t have to, but it can be helpful,” a particularly nervous intern named Tavros confides in you after your eighth consecutive day of visiting. “And then, just talking to him could help.”

So you always say “hey, it’s Dave” when you enter the room, and then you talk until your throat is sore and you can’t stand the sound of your own voice. You tell jokes, read stories, recall memories—everything and anything you can think of saying.

Meanwhile, you missed your graduation ceremony—it seriously didn’t feel right going without John. You got the diploma in the mail a couple days afterwards, though. You shredded it, which felt good.

You don’t go anywhere besides the hospital and your home. You never went back to the coffee shop to get your car—you didn't think you could handle it and you don't really trust yourself to drive anyways—so you just walk. As the days went by, the end of spring gave way to a full Washington summer. You'd been amazed the first time you'd seen it. Texas _winters_ are almost hotter than Washington summers. But in Texas, or at least in the city where you'd lived, there weren't seasons. On some blocks of the city, there were trees that grew and got trimmed. But they didn't change colors and lose their leaves. And there was nothing like the vibrant greens of the summer grasses and the voluminous figures of the summer trees in Washington. During your first summer in Washington, you had to be physically forced inside at night. Now, you barely pay your surroundings notice. When you walk, you keep your eyes to the ground to avoid looking at strangers. You walk with your headphones on, but you don’t listen to anything—you just don’t want to be bothered.

When you’re at home, you shower and you sleep. It's been weeks since you'd bought groceries. You eat when a hospital staff member reminds you to, which is often, but honestly, not enough.

This morning you'd looked into the mirror, and your reflection had nearly made you jump. Your eyes looked redder than normal due to being bloodshot—you don’t sleep well. Your skin looked kind of grey. Your face looked sunken. You finally, sort of, got why people are worried about you.

The waitress who'd accompanied you a month ago-you learned that her name is Roxy-hits you up every other day and asks you how things are and if you're eating. It's sweet, but truth be told, the fact that you still don't know each other very well makes it easy to ignore her concern for you.

Jade and Rose had signed up for summer classes, so they could only physically come down to visit every other weekend. Nevertheless, they hit you up online every day. Jade tries to keep you talking to her as long as she can. Rose even stopped playing shrink and stuck to empty banter, when she realized that it was the only way to keep you from impulsively disconnecting without so much as a goodbye. But both had dropped subtle hints about your lack of enrollment in graduate school, and about your slowly draining income. They must have even alerted bro, because a couple days ago he’d called you on skype and tried to have a heart-to-heart with you.

You love your bro, but you weren't about to talk about your feelings with him. Instead, you shot the shit and dodged any serious questions he'd tried to hit you with.

You could see that he was worried by the end of it, and maybe a little hurt that you wouldn’t open up for him. You sort of felt bad about it, too, but maybe if he wanted to act like a fucking adult he could’ve done it when you really needed it, when you were a kid.

Now you’re just an emotionally stunted college graduate with no future plans and no ability to communicate your feelings.

Well, fuck that. It’s not all bro’s fault, and you know it. Nevertheless, you try very, very hard not to accept the reality of your situation. Instead, you make yourself believe that being there for John, day in and day out, is helpful. You allow yourself to believe that he might be able to hear you when you talk, and so you do what you do best. You talk and you talk, and basically refuse to shut up.

“Hey, it’s Dave. Do you remember how we met? Because I don’t. It seems like one day, my life was good, and then suddenly, some dumb guy was bugging me like 24/7.

…ok, I’m kidding. I legit can’t remember how we met, but I didn’t really have that many people around when we did. And, you were only annoying like 90% of the time. And, you were always there when I really needed someone, so I got pretty lucky. I was lucky to have you. There. I said it.

You know why. But I’m going to tell you why, just so that you don’t forget. I mean there’s more than just one reason. There’s more reasons that I can count, really…but.

Do you know what today is? It’s July 4th. Independence Day. America’s cake day. It’s also the 6 year anniversary of one of the worst days of my life—before this, at least. But also, sort of one of the best. I guess it was sort of bittersweet? It’s a little hard to explain, but you know what happened. Remember...”

 

July 4th, 2012

 

==>Be 16 Year Old Dave

 

Fuck everything.

You are so upset that you’re basically ready to kill someone, or yourself. Possibly both.

You walk into your apartment, which feels colder than Alaska. But the A/C is off and it's a Texan summer, so it's probably just you.

Your bro is sitting on the couch, watching some shitty DJ give an interview for a pre-fireworks show, and pretending to take notes on a legal pad. Normally you would be appreciative of his enormous commitment to the ironic cause, but today, it just irritates you. He looks up as you enter, and gives you a standard nod. You don’t return it with one of your own.

He frowns and you can feel him trying to analyze you, as if trying to gauge whether it’d be worth it to try to express some sort of fatherly, or at least brotherly, affection.

Apparently he decides not, because he shrugs and goes to back the TV.

You slam the door when you go to your room.

It’d been a really, _really_ long day. You don’t even bother unpacking your backpack, because you’re not going to be doing any school shit tonight. Summer school, graduating on time…you couldn’t care less. You need to put all your energy into not completely losing your shit.

You try to keep busy. You drop some sick beats on the turntables bro gave you last Christmas. You draw for your internet famous comic, sweet bro and hella jeff. You start papering your room so that you can use it as a blackroom to develop some photos.

Nothing works. After a few minutes of dropping beats, the music still doesn’t stop feeling empty. Your comic panels just aren’t funny. None of your pictures seem worth developing.

And goddamnit, your fucking phone has been beeping intermittently the entire time. It’s probably one of your online friends. But as much as you love them, they can’t do a lot for you from where they are. And you have a shit ton of problems.

They might be a little worried, sure—you haven’t talked to them since this whole thing started. But they have their own lives. They can live a few days while you figure what the fuck is going on in yours.

You lie on your bed, and try to talk yourself into calming down.

It doesn’t work. You can feel your eyes sting and begin to water.

Fuck.

You tell yourself to take deep breaths. To clear your mind. You know how to make your feelings go away—just don’t deal with them. It’s numb, sure, but it’s better than being hurt.

It might have worked, too, but you forgot to turn off your phone, and it's now beeping more insistently. Furious, you get up to turn it off, possibly by throwing it against a wall. But something stops you, and you open up the application that has you going batshit insane.

\--ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead[TG] at 20:51—

EB: hey  
EB: happy America day  
EB: um…so  
EB: rose and jade have alerted me to the fact that you’ve been ignoring them for a week  
EB: and i guess me too  
EB: which is super weird  
EB: because normally i have to like, pay you to stop talking  
EB: is this reverse psychology? What do you want?  
EB: money?  
EB: power?  
EB: a salamander?  
EB: actually scratch that  
EB: casey is not for sale  
EB: or bargaining  
EB: but i could get you into the illuminati  
EB: probably  
EB: …  
EB: i know youre there dave  
EB: pesterchum is an internet relic  
EB: i dont even know why we use it  
EB: i guess weve all got a case of classic strider irony going on  
EB: like people who use myspace  
EB: not because they don’t know about facebook  
EB: but because they don't want to board the mainstream train  
EB: dude your irony is literally just you being a hipster  
EB: …  
EB: wow i really thought that'd get a response  
EB: haha  
EB: but anyways since we’re using a 21st century fossil, i can see that youre online  
EB: ill let you rap if you respond  
EB: um  
EB: hm  
EB: ill stop rapping if you respond  
EB: ok   
EB: just remember that this "rap" is on you  
EB: dave is such a cool kid no one can deny  
EB: he's so cool and he's super fly  
EB: but as hard as he might try  
EB: he can't ignore his bffl-best friend for lyfe  
EB: wiggity wiggity  
EB: word  
EB: um  
EB: shit this is actually kinda hard!

You laugh out loud—you’re probably going into hysterics. But you type back:

TG: holy shit  
TG: that hurt me spiritually  
TG: stick to instrumental beats egboob  
EB: dave!!  
TG: but actually, im not in the mood. leave me alone  
EB: what’s going on?  
EB: homie?  
EB: hehe  
EB: are you working on your broody façade for some movie?  
EB: are you going to be the next edward twilight?  
TG: egbert  
TG: im being serious  
TG: fuck off  
EB: dave  
EB: whats going on?  
TG: I told you, just leave me alone  
EB: no im not going anywhere  
EB: and until you tell me whats going on  
EB: ill message you so much that the pesterchum ‘ping’ will follow you into your dreams  
TG: you are such an asshole  
EB: yeah, well. So are you going to talk about it or do I have to “make” you?  
EB: hehe

 You’re not completely sure you want to talk about, but John has a strange effect on you. You’re not so much of a touchy feely sort of guy, but…

 TG: …

TG: fine fucking whatever  
TG: you remember last year when i told you about that guy that i had a thing for  
TG: karkat  
TG: fucking ridiculous name for a fucking ridiculous crush  
EB: yeah??  
TG: well  
TG: ive been seeing this girl for a while  
TG: like maybe a month or two  
EB: what?? And you never told me??  
TG: I didn’t think it was serious  
TG: but apparently neither did she  
TG: but it actually was for me  
TG: and it took her banging karkat behind my back for me to figure it out  
TG: im such a moron holy shit  
EB: if it wasn’t serious how did she go behind your back?  
TG: fuck I don’t know  
TG: she kept it a secret from me  
TG: so she had to have known there was something at least slightly uncool about it  
TG: and now I cant stand to look at the only 2 friends I have in this fucking place  
TG: so excuse me for not being able to handle your obsessive need to talk to me all the time  
EB: wow  
EB: I know you didn’t mean that but  
EB: take a deep breath, dave

You’re not sure what you were expecting—a magic cure? That opening up to John would make you feel all better? Well, it fucking didn’t. In fact, you’re almost angrier than before. 

TG: fuck this  
TG: i overreacted, it’s not a big deal ok  
TG: im out  
EB: no wait  
EB: dave please come on  
EB: youre right, what she did sounds terrible  
EB: you know ive never dated anyone, so im not really good with advice in that department  
EB: but i do know that anyone who hurts you is not okay in my book  
EB: im sorry dave  
EB: that sounds shitty  
EB: but its gonna be ok!! there are better fish in the sea, and those fish wont hurt you, ok??  
EB: you just gotta hang in there until you can meet them!!  
EB: and in the mean time  
EB: please don’t shut me and rose and jade out  
EB: not because we need you to be cool enough for all of us  
EB: although we do  
EB: but because we care about you!! And we will do everything we can to cheer you up  
EB: your happiness is so important dave :(

Fuck. Your eyes are definitely watery now, and your lip won’t stop trembling. You’ve totally given up on that deep breathing bullshit, and you blink. Your phone screen is very hard to see. But you can make out:

EB: okay, i get it, i made you mad  
EB: sorry about that  
EB: and youre hurting, i get that  
EB: just, cheer up dave  
EB: it’ll get better  
EB: and for the record, if i ever meet this girl or this karkat  
EB: im going to smash a cake into their faces  
EB: not even as a gag  
EB: they’ll never get the frosting out of their hair. they’ll never be able to stand the smell of sweets ever again  
EB: revenge is…a sweet treat  
EB: wow that was really bad  
EB: but i hope youre laughing dave!  
EB: i know you’re still online  
EB: it’s ok if you don't want to talk to me, but you should talk to someone  
EB: even if it’s just yourself  
EB: like yeah haha talking to yourself  
EB: but seriously, there’s nothing wrong with feeling ok  
EB: you gotta let yourself if you want to feel better  
EB: and id reaaaaaaaally like it if you cheered up  
EB: because i care about you dave  
EB: <3  
EB: talk to you later?  


\--ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead[TG] at 21:43—

And just like that, you're sobbing- and not even caring if bro hears you. That’s his problem—you’re not going to put on a façade for that douchebag.

 You cry until you can’t see Terezi’s guilty looking face, until you can't hear Karkat’s shouting at you when you walked in on them in an otherwise empty classroom. _Classy_ , you think viciously. You feel yourself starting to calm down. And after a few more minutes, you wipe your eyes and your hands stop shaking. You’re exhausted, completely drained. Although it didn't feel like it, you'd been crying for over an hour. You were going to watch the fireworks with bro, but now all you want to do is sleep. But, there is one thing you have to do before you go to bed.

\--turntechGodhead[TG] began pestering ectoBiologist[EB] at 22:59—

TG: hey  
TG: i swear, if you repeat this anywhere, i’ll deny it and it’ll go away by the force of my will  
TG: but thanks, john  
TG: i needed that  
TG: happy america day  
TG: talk to you later.   


\--turntechGodhead[TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist[EB] at 23:02--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these last couple months have totally flown by...as a high school senior, I've been swamped with college apps, standardized testing, and finals. As a result, my fanfiction writing time has basically been nonexistent. But I'd like to reaffirm that I am committed to finishing this story! Also, I'm sorry for how bittersweet this chapter is, given that today is dead center for holiday time for many people. I wish it were happier. Oh well. Happy holidays, and thank you for reading so far!


	5. ==>Be the reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jade and Rose realize just how bad off Dave is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really headcanon Jade as a morning person and Rose as DEFINITELY NOT a morning person. Also, Jade/Rose and Dave/John don't room together in this story. Why? The rooms are 2/room, and when they picked rooms, Rose and John were seeing people who wanted to do the rooming-couples things. #funfact

Chapter 5

July 21st, 2018

\--gardenGnostic[GG] began pestering tentacleTherapist[TT] at 6:00—

GG: rose??   
GG: are you awake??   
GG: rose!??   
GG: i know where you live   
GG: or where youre ignoring me, right now. hehe :)   
GG: but actually!! can you please respond now!!!   
TT: Hello, Jade.   
TT: It is so very pleasant to be speaking with you, right now, at this very moment.   
TT: Or actually, it’s not, seeing as how the sun isn’t even up yet. And it’s a Saturday.   
TT: Why did you feel the need to wake me at such an obscene hour?   
GG:you're so dramatic :P   
GG: but im worried about dave   
GG: i dont think hes missed a day at  the hospital   
GG: and its been like two months!!! :/   
GG: …….rose!!!! dont fall asleep on me now!!!   
TT: Forgive me, Jade, I was composing my thoughts. Fear not, I wouldn't dream of    
falling asleep on you.   
TT: Actually, I was going to bring this up with you today, too. It’s something I’ve been thinking about as well. Although, I was going to bring it up, say, when the sun rose.   
TT: Regardless, I do believe Dave is unhealthy.   
TT: Grief is natural, of course. He was closer to John than even us. However, healthy grief requires a person to move through a series of taxing emotional steps, beginning with denial.  
TT: However, I believe that Dave has not even begun moving past denial, which is worrisome.  
TT: As far as I’m aware, he’s not enrolled in school, he doesn’t have a job, and he doesn’t see anyone else.  
TT: Are you aware that he hasn’t picked up his car since the night it happened? His waitress friend and I exchanged numbers when we met, and she alerted me to the fact that it has been compounded.  
TT: Also his brother even informed me through a typically hideous strider "brand" of ironic emails that he is also concerned.  
TT: Dave should be past denial. The next steps in a healthy cycle of grief are anger, bargaining, denial, and acceptance. But while I would argue that he’s depressed, the fact remains that he hasn’t even accepted what’s happened to John.  
TT: He’s fixated on the idea that his constant companionship and nostalgia wrenching stories will bring John back.  
TT: But they won’t, because John is catatonic. He can’t hear him.   
GG: :/  
TT: I can sense you judging me. Forgive me, I'm grieving John as much as you and Dave are. But do you see? That was acceptance. It’s not happy acceptance, but it is an understanding of John’s condition.   
GG: i get what youre saying  
GG: but then, how do we help dave??  
TT: we can’t do anything  
TT: You’re a biology major with no social training. And although I am studying to be a therapist, I am not qualified to help a situation this delicate.  
TT: No, we need professional help.  
GG: so we need to get dave into therapy?  
TT: Yes.  
GG: god, how are we going to do that?  
TT: Well, that is the pressing issue here…I don’t know.  
TT: But I do think it’s not a feat we will be able to accomplish through pesterchum. As soon as he gets uncomfortable, he will disconnect.  
GG: ok…so, road trip??  
TT: Yes.

\--tentacleTherapist ceased pestering gardenGnostic[GG] at 6:32—

GG: :/   


\--gardenGnostic[GG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist[TT] at 6:33--

 

 

 


End file.
